


Cradled by Stars

by ligeia



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ligeia/pseuds/ligeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things had become complicated for Kirk and Spock, and become even more complicated when Kirk becomes pregnant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cradled by Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Inheritance Series](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1481) by Jou and Latenightarting. 



On the observation deck at 0345 hours, the expanse of space stretches out before Kirk as an abyss punctuated by distant stars. It shaped him, that silent void. The wideness of it all and the opportunity it represented; it meant something nearly unattainable once. But now that empty space also reminds him of another life, one where the endless meandering roads and flat plains of his childhood pointed to everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Another life, another world. He doesn't want to go back there, that time before anything. Before he became the youngest captain to command a ship in Starfleet history, before he became the only male captain—hell, the only guy on whole fucking Earth probably, to get knocked up while being happy it happened.

Shahar gurgles a bit and the silence of the observation deck breaks with faint unhappy whines.

Kirk wraps the bundle around his son tighter and strokes the sloping edge of Shahar's pointed ear, taking care so his son wasn't making too much contact with Kirk's own, much cooler skin. The child eases slightly, chubby fingers reaching out blindly in half-slumber toward Kirk. He brushes his hand against them and the fingers reflexively grasp one of his own.

"Computer," he calls out into the void. "Raise temperature to 45ºC and drop humidity to 5%."

The flood of dry heat through the deck is almost instantaneous, and soon sweat's starting to bead along his skin. Never mind the technology, the heating and plumbing in this place is a wonder. _This place_ , he thinks with a smile. The Enterprise. His girl. His first baby, as he thinks only half-jokingly of her sometimes. But at least he knows _her_ fate is assured, resting in good hands. The title of "Acting" in front of Spock's temporary position as Captain these days was pretty much extraneous. He used to count how many shift's he's missed since being out on medical leave, but now Kirk doesn't even remember how long it's been since he's sat in the command chair.

Well, Spock was right about all of it, of course. He always was. It was impossible for a man in his position to raise a child optimally in the environment of a starship. Irresponsible to think he could. Kirk thought he could balance it all. Thought he could _have_ it all. Maybe all it really did was to prove the opposite. But Kirk thinks he's always been ahead of the curve. Getting the Enterprise at 25—that's beating his own record from another lifetime. He knows he's good enough, tough enough. That familiar certainty threatened; the confidence he'll pull through and prove Spock wrong.

That thought alone is nearly enough to make Kirk want to rescind his shore leave request. A part of him grates against the idea that he _needs_ it to figure everything out. He is James Tiberius Kirk; his actions have been credited for once saving the entire planet. Kirk knows how they see him, knows he's supposed to be this, that, _something_. The brief glimpses into the life he's never going to lead form the rubric against which he measures himself. In that universe he had a whole career to make his name. Now he has a whole career to prove himself. He wants to live up to that credit and to the faith so many are now duty-bound to have for him.

He just...also needs some personal time so his baby boy can go see grandma while he figures out the rest of their lives.

Ultimately, however, Kirk knows it comes down to one variable. It's his son, and it isn't fair for Shahar. It isn't safe. The unforgiving vacuum of space makes one hell of a cradle.

Fuck, that was why _he_ was sent to Iowa.

Maybe it would be better to take up either of Winona's suggestions. She had two: the more serious one involves letting her raise Shahar, and the less serious (he thinks) has Kirk giving up the ship so both he and Shahar can move back to Iowa together. But both options grate almost as soon as they resurface in his mind. Either would be safer than Shahar staying on the ship, but Iowa's still too cold for his baby and he needs a pediatrician with certification in xenobiology, Vulcan biology. Vulcan. Spock. _Spock_.

He wonders what Spock would make of all this. Well, other than responding with a reticent expression of _I told you so_. Even after breaking things off with Spock, Kirk thought they could maintain their friendship, even still build up that implicit understanding the other Spock somehow had in his Kirk.

But he didn't get to where he is by being a slow learner, and the silence speaks in Spock's absence. Spock really, plainly, simply, wants nothing to do with either him or Shahar. Kirk closes his eyes, tries to swallow the clawing pull of his heart sinking into his stomach.

The kid breaks out into a full wail at that, jolting Kirk out of his reverie. He rocks Shahar gently, but it's not working. The child just keeps crying and Kirk runs simultaneously through a mental diagnostic checklist and his own intuition. The child doesn't need changing. Food maybe, but where's the damn bottle, _I forgot it of course I did I'm an idiot_ , but then he notices the really-not-surprisingly-tight grip on his finger and realizes his own hand is still touching Shahar's ear.

Kirk suppresses the urge to jerk his hand away; that would break the link. He closes his eyes again; he can do this. Breathe deeply and meditate. Ha, meditate. There's Spock again, casually swimming to the forefront of his mind. He clears it away until the cries dissolve slowly into a fit of whimpering. Finally, the tiny burning hand drops from Jim's finger as sleep overtakes Shahar once more.

"Okay, fine," he murmurs to the sleeping child. "No more thinking about Iowa then."

But the question remains, as it had ever since the beginning. Then what?

\--

"Oh man," Kirk groaned, shivering as he settled heavily on the biobed. It was three months into the pregnancy, and it was freezing in sickbay, like it was everywhere on the ship. "Shit _sucks_."

McCoy didn't bother looking up from pushing the hypospray against Kirk's neck. But he paused after he set it aside, turning to the biofunction monitor.

"Hey," McCoy said, eyeing Kirk's abdomen pointedly. "Language, Jim."

"Fuck you."

The analgesic quickly numbed his jangling nerves and Kirk's eyes drifted shut as McCoy shifted beside him.

"Amazing how simple Acetaminophen is the only drug that doesn't put you in an anaphylactic shock," McCoy muttered, running a cool hand over the slight but growing curve of his belly, still masked by his regular uniform.

The obstetrics tricorder followed and the doctor's hands moved away as McCoy looked over the monitor again. For a while nothing passed between them.

"Does he know?" McCoy asked quietly.

Kirk didn't open his eyes. He didn't respond. McCoy was an observant man, and he knew his friend had caught on, and early. And not for nothing, but his sudden taste for plomeek soup couldn't have gone unnoticed for long.

"It's T-negative, Jim. The blood type circulating in there," McCoy continued. "Well, frankly I've known since that unexplainable fever of yours started up."

Kirk eased further back onto the biobed. "He knows," he said, blinking eyes open against the lights of the concentric sensors on the ceiling. "He wanted me to get rid of it. Anyway, it's over. He's free to do whatever he wants, and that's what I told him."

He really didn't want to think about Spock. He didn't want to think about the very real possibility of Spock's parting words from that conversation coming true. That the odds of the fetus reaching term within Kirk without harm to either were not fucking good. Or one in four-hundred-whatever, as Spock had put it. That his behavior was 'alarmingly illogical'.

"Was that all?" McCoy interrupted his thoughts, with an accusatory tone in his voice. "Lot of trust in a guy you broke up with, huh."

"Don't even think about it, Bones," Kirk retorted, eyes fixing on the calmly concerned face of his friend. "You talk to him and I'll put you on OB/GYN duty for the entire ship so fast you'll beg for a transfer."

But there was a determined look in McCoy's face as he stood up abruptly, his chair clanging loudly as it hit the wall behind him. "Well, what _about_ Spock's suggestion? What are you going to do with it?"

A heavy silence hung after that as Jim again said nothing.

"Listen, Jim. I don't know what Spock said. But if you want my medical advice—and I know you don't—you need to terminate this. I don't like it. There's too many untested variables here, and the safest for you is to get rid of it. Right now it might only feel like morning sickness from hell, but this could really kill you later on."

Kirk sighed, feeling a bit like he'd had this discussion before. In so many words, McCoy's words and hesitation seemed to mirror Spock's. Under any other circumstance he'd point it out too, if just for the doctor's reaction, but now the thought was only a distraction.

"That's what they told Amanda Grayson."

"Funny, I didn't know Spock's mother was actually male," McCoy sighed. "This is the dumbest stunt you've ever pulled, Jim, and I've seen you try some seriously dumb stuff. You're the captain of this ship, not a lab rat for the most ridiculous allergic reaction to newly discovered xenoflora ever."

"But think of the prestige you'd get from research article you can publish on it afterwards," Kirk offered in a light, mocking tone.

"What's the price for proving yourself?" The look on McCoy's face was one of utter exasperation.

Kirk dropped his line of vision to somewhere around McCoy's feet. "What about the royalties from the book deal?"

McCoy groaned as Kirk looked back up with a grin. The doctor was busy staring daggers into the computer screen, carefully scanning through the readout of Kirk's recent examination records. Kirk laughed, glad for the obvious concern of his friend.

His laughs died off and he touched his abdomen gently.

"I know what you're saying. But I can't get rid of him," he found himself whispering, but whether to himself or McCoy he wasn't sure.

"Him?" McCoy asked curiously.

It didn't hit Kirk until he said it, and though odd, he felt certain he was right.

"Yea..." He trailed off, blinking as he found his hands reaching up to his temples of their own seeming accord. He stared at them, dimly realizing how ridiculous he looked at that moment, staring rapturously at his own palms. "I think I can feel him up here."

"Growing within your conscious," McCoy mused with an air of resignation.

Kirk smiled; yea, it was something like that. He wondered if Spock would be able to feel the growing baby too, were they still together. If the Vulcan's hand had ran over his belly instead of the doctor's. He tried not to think about it. After all, Kirk had been the one to break off the relationship. Maybe the elder Spock was wrong after all about that supposed shared destiny, or whatever he'd said. Or maybe Kirk had just been too ambitious for jumping in with Spock so soon. Either way, there was no going back.

McCoy was sighing again. "Fine. You're coming back for another checkup _tomorrow_. And your vitals are getting monitored 'round the clock from now on. If you even think of trying any funny business, this will know."

He pointed to the biofunction monitor, where Kirk's heart was beating a steady zigzag pattern on the screen.

"Thanks, doc," Kirk said to the retreating form of the CMO, but the man was muttering to himself and there came no response.

"Damn Vulcan genes. _Can feel him_ ," was all the captain heard before the door shut on the examination room.

\--

By the time Kirk reached his third trimester, he was more or less living part-time in sickbay, partly on McCoy's insistence and partly because he'd gotten sick of watching crewmembers trying to avoid staring at his grotesquely swollen abdomen. Well, he didn't blame them. There was no open talk that reached him directly, but a rumor mill doesn't take much to figure out. Plus, though grateful for her medical insight, the presence of a Vulcan physician whom McCoy managed to wrangle onboard didn't exactly help to dampen the fire.

So Kirk had no doubt the entire ship probably knew by this point that he'd had Spock's dick up his suddenly and improbably fertile ass—but between the fever, struggling to stay awake, and trying to walk while maintaining some semblance of dignity, that was the least of his concerns.

That Vulcan physician—T'Mel was her name, Kirk remembered—and McCoy were in apparent deep discussion on the other end of the main foyer. It was probably about his refusal to leave the Enterprise and relocate to the newly-constructed Vulcan Medical Institute, but Kirk's insisted on riding this out here.

The wildly fluctuating moods had gradually given way to a general exhaustion in the past few days. McCoy was probably going to keep his ass in sickbay 'round the clock if that kept up. Kirk groaned and smoothed a hand over his belly. Even through his overheated palms, he could feel the womb inside as a fiery focal point, burning and irradiating out into the rest of his body. And then, of course, there was the _presence_ —the awareness of something that was, and wasn't, himself.

He was reclined on the biobed when Nurse Chapel paused, stared over Jim's shoulder while monitoring the updated vitals. Almost instantly a hush fell among the staff until McCoy, still arguing in the far corner, remained the only audible voice in the room.

"Forgive the intrusion, Captain," came the inimitable voice over his head.

Kirk turned, head spinning a little from the movement. Spock was standing behind him with hands neatly folded behind his back, regal, calm. Beautiful. He shook off the last observation and nodded at Spock, hoping his face looked blasé.

"Nothing to forgive, Commander. What is it?"

There was a pause before Spock responded. The Vulcan's gaze flitted over Kirk, who dropped his hand off the belly, self-conscious. "Captain, as you may recall, six days ago Ensign Morrows from Engineering filed a complaint against his direct superior, Lieutenant Johmas. I have completed the investigation of the matter and concluded that Lieutenant Johmas should receive a formal recorded reprimand. The action requires your authorization, of course."

Kirk's eyes turned from Spock, an uncomfortable disappointment immediately flaring at the words. He chuckled, despite himself. He didn't know what he expected. Hell, he didn't even know what he wanted to hear.

In the back of his mind there was an awareness that he was nodding. He waved his hand vaguely in assent. "Of course, Commander."

Spock took a step forward and Kirk turned his gaze back, rubbing eyes blearily. He was growing tired again. "Jim—" Spock was suddenly saying _something_ , but it was getting hard to concentrate, and Spock quickly coming closer, was, frankly, no help.

But then a wave of nausea overtook him, heady and dizzying. Kirk struggled to blink past the haze as a second wave overtook the wake of the first, this time tinged with something else, a discomfort that was not quite his—

Pain sliced through his back and belly and Jim clutched his sides as cool hands—Chapel, yes, he thinks it's her—were suddenly on him. Then came a second pair, strong, grasping him by his shoulders, and these he recognized instantly. His eyes met Spock's, whose eyes were wide, and that looked odd somehow, different on the normally placid Vulcan.

It seemed like every medical officer in Starfleet was on him in a moment. McCoy cursed distantly, and Kirk reached out an arm to grab the doctor, who stood much closer than he sounded.

"Bones—"

"Jim, we're operating _now_."

Panic flooded. He needed to tell McCoy he could feel the baby slipping away from him already, but the words couldn't come. The tight, warm grip of Spock's hands retracted in the flurry of activity as he was wheeled into the operating room. Eyes met again, Spock's still wide, before the door shut on the Vulcan. In the minute it took the medical staff to disinfect and crowd around him, blocking the door from view, it did not open.

\--

A tight knitting in McCoy's brow was Kirk's only key to the progress of the operation. Kirk gasped, even with the ventilation hypo it was difficult to breathe with the now-familiar presence of the baby in his mind gone. He hadn't wanted to name the child, not yet. A name seemed to attach something more, something he was afraid to lose. The stream of increasingly dire medical reports McCoy and T'Mel were feeding him and the worse ones he was certain McCoy tried to keep from him were one factor, probably. The other reason, if Kirk was lucky that is, still stood behind that closed door. But Spock's probably long gone on some other important business. Business Kirk wasn't necessarily privy to anymore because of the recently-begun medical leave.

Still, though Kirk didn't _want to_ didn't mean he _didn't_. And soon enough he was calling his baby Shahar, and Shahar might already be gone. It was impossible to tell as his mind and body juddered into a normal homeostasis, for a human.

Gone. Passed over. They were all other words for dead, and that couldn't be true. It wasn't going to happen. He squinted as someone wiped the cold sweat off his face and refocused on the doctor. No, if Shahar was dead they would know; McCoy would have told him.

Bodies passed in and out of his vision, blue medical uniforms all blurred together, protective gear splotched in a muddled combination of red and green. For a moment it was a terrible and quiet harmony: the nurses swiftly moving around him, McCoy's face contorted in a tight grimace above him, the Vulcan doctor's imperturbable.

Finally, McCoy straightened upright, green blood covering his gloved hands, holding something tiny and far too quiet. There was a tuft of hair and a pointed ear, and skin stained with a color that Kirk recognized instantly as resulting from oxygen deprivation. The panic rose again, flooding over his earlier determination.

McCoy passed Shahar over to T'Mel, who turned away from the operating biobed to the one beside him. Bodies crowded around the immovable form, hunching over Shahar. Kirk closed his eyes.

Distantly, he heard McCoy speaking. "He's alive, Jim. We're going to do everything we can for him but you've lost a lot of blood. I'm going to..."

He didn't hear the rest. After a while, he struggled to reopen his eyes again and crane his neck to the far wall.

"Doctor!" Someone exclaimed, as his shoulders are gently pushed down onto the bed again.

"Hold him there, I don't want to give him another dose. Let's not push it."

It wasn't necessary anyway, Kirk wanted to say. He closed his eyes again. The door was too far out of his range of vision, but it didn't matter. Kirk's mind filled in what his eyes could not see. It was still shut.

\--

The summer solstice has just passed in Iowa when McCoy finally clears Shahar for discharge, about a month later by Earth time. It's early than predicted, but in a way Kirk's not surprised. Given where those Vulcan genes came from, he should expect nothing less, and sure enough, Shahar's development, once stabilized, progresses rapidly.

By then, Kirk pretty much has an office of his own set up in sickbay as well. He's taken up residence there for so long the staff have all adopted McCoy's nickname of "little emperors" to describe the two.

Kirk's just come back from Shahar's last checkup before shore leave and the kid is wailing bloody murder. The door blessedly slides shut behind him. Not being able to control a sobbing kid in his arms is probably not a great help for his command image, a far corner of his brain chimes in, but hell if the rest of his body gives a shit. Blinking wearily, he tries to suppress the mounting frustration to little success.

The lack of sleep isn't helping Kirk deal very well either, and he's taken to wandering the less occupied corridors of the ship late at night. The Enterprise during gamma shift is surprisingly less busy than he remembers it being, and even on the observation deck the previous night there was no one in sight. He doesn't mind coming across the crew. When he does, however, there's often little comment on the kid he's holding in his arms.

He wonders, but doesn't ask why. Because Kirk's a little preoccupied these days and, hell, he has no qualms about freely admitting it: this is just about the fucking hardest thing. And right now, he's trying to rock Shahar gently when the signal for the door sounds behind him and fuck it—he just punches the door open without even sparing a second to check who it is. He's done harder things than this, he knows he has, but at this moment? It's all he can do to remember he's Captain James Fucking Kirk and not someone who's going to lose it right there in the middle of his quarters.

The door slides open and for a while no one enters. There is only the sound of the baby crying in the room and Kirk cooing. It's either to Shahar or himself, but hell if he knows which at the moment. There's also a pair of eyes boring into his back, and it's been silent for far too long. Kirk knows who it is at once, naturally.

Of course, leave it to Spock to make his grand entrance right at the moment where Kirk's clear incompetency is on full display. Kirk turns around, nodding at Spock. The Vulcan stands patiently with hands folded behind his back and was wearing, improbably, a dingy-looking, oversized sweater rather than his usual regulation uniform.

Spock's lips move, saying _something_ , but Kirk can't hear anything above the wailing and he just shakes his head. The Vulcan moves closer, taking slow and deliberate steps, and Kirk's breath catches in his throat.

"I did not mean to intrude," Spock finally calls out over the noise when in close enough range.

"It's fine," he replies crisply, bouncing Shahar lightly and not bothering to raise his voice.

There is a long pause before Spock takes another step closer, arms gradually unfolding and reaching toward the child. "Do you mind?"

Kirk stares at Spock, dumbfounded for a moment before shaking his head. Spock stands close enough that Kirk can see the rising and falling of the Vulcan's chest and a jolt runs up his arms as Spock's hand brushes him while taking the child. Spock's arms remain still for a moment, holding the child awkwardly as Shahar keeps wailing, defying the capacity his tiny lungs could apparently maintain in one breath.

He raises eyes slowly to Spock's face, curious. Spock's lips are slightly parted, eyebrows gently arching into his forehead, eyes wide in something Kirk thinks he recognizes as astonishment. A hand comes out tentatively to Shahar's bundling and Spock seems to catch it midway, turning toward Kirk as if seeking silent permission. Kirk nods.

Long fingers unfold the cloth slowly from Shahar's body, still screaming and crying. It doesn't look like Spock knows what to do either, but the Vulcan keeps cradling the child as Kirk had just been doing, a supporting arm wrapping under Shahar.

A moment passes, then another. Slowly, the cries break down into whines before ultimately fading into the buzzing silence of the room.

Uh huh. Interesting.

Kirk clears his throat. Spock's eyes turn to him at the sound and Kirk runs a hand through his hair.

"Well," he deadpans before falling heavily into a chair. "Thank you, Commander, your performance is exemplary as always."

He rubs his eyes, annoyed with himself that he let his frustration show in front of Spock. Unbelievable. Maybe _he_ should stay in Iowa and leave Shahar here, he thinks, laughing to himself.

The laughs died off in a sigh. Great, and now Spock probably thinks he's gone insane to boot. He groans and leans back into the chair.

A pause, then a quiet voice beside him speaks. "Jim."

At the sound of his name, Kirk turns to Spock with raised eyebrows, fingers still poised in mid-rub under his eyes. Spock's eyebrows are knit together. It's nearly enough to make the Vulcan look concerned.

"I have displeased you and I wish to know the cause," Spock says quietly, still holding Shahar, taking a seat beside him.

Kirk smiles; it probably looks like a tight grimace.

"It's nothing. I'm just frustrated. Sorry for taking it out on you, Command—" he catches himself. "Sorry— _Spock_."

Spock seems to weigh his words for a minute before speaking, brow creased in an expression of having to decipher some inexplicable conundrum of logic.

"You have neither sought my assistance nor my company." When Spock finally does speak, it comes out in a measuring, deliberate tone. "I have displeased you."

Kirk pauses at that, not sure what to say. Why does the Vulcan choose to ask these questions now? More importantly—and a speck of anger rises to the forefront of his consciousness despite his best efforts—how can he ask that now, after what had happened?

"You—wait." Kirk pauses to formulate some actual thoughts, trying to cut off the anger before it could grow any further. "You do know we broke up. That you didn't even want the kid."

His voice gets louder, but the signals from his brain of _shut the hell up_ don't quite reach.

"Listen, I know you have some kind of fantastic eidetic memory, so you _do_ remember when you said this _thing_ —" he swallows, "Shahar—would fuck up my life beyond all recognition. That it would be the biggest mistake I ever made, if I lived to regret it."

Spock says nothing through it all, expression unchanging, but there is a flicker in the Vulcan's dark eyes as Kirk stares them down and they do not quite meet his.

"Well, you're half-right. He fucked up my life beyond all recognition, but he's not a mistake." His voice finally drops back down and it's barely a murmur now. "And I love him, even if you don't."

"You are mistaken." Spock's voice rings clear and eyes drop down to Shahar, still in the Vulcan's arm. "I was only my wish that you would not risk your life, Jim."

For a moment the only sound is Shahar's deep breathing in the room. A line of drool traces one side of a round chin and when Spock continues, he looks to be pondering it deeply as the Vulcan keeps staring at Shahar's face.

"When you ended our relationship I felt my presence was no longer welcome. I had hoped...that by performing my functions to the best of my ability during your absence I could relieve you of as much burden as I could," Spock finishes at length, glancing over to Kirk.

Well.

As far as the possible responses go, Spock is apparently excellent at choosing the one that would render Kirk speechless the longest.

"I'm 'mistaken'." Kirk says, leaning in. "Tell me then. I know for a fact that you do feel. I have it from a very good source."

"Jim..." is all Spock says in response, trailing off before meeting Jim in the eye.

Kirk smiles tentatively, unsure—and Spock inclines his head silently, nodding just so. It's a gesture Kirk's seen a hundred times on the bridge, on duty, back then before everything seemed to kind of rush into each other. It really wasn't that long ago, considering. In another universe Spock apparently knows everything about him without having to ask. But that doesn't really matter.

Nothing is ever simple, Kirk knows, but he can almost make out the feeling of a door being budged open. Unbelievable. Kirk runs a hand through his hair and laughter threatens to bubble out. Nerves, maybe. Or a relief for the pressure if anything, but Kirk's afraid Spock would take it wrong somehow and think it's directed at him. It's probably silly, but he doesn't know—and for some reason, he really doesn't want Spock to misconstrue. Instead, Kirk just smiles, nodding back.

Shahar seems to take this moment to break in, waking up with a start and a squeal on Spock's arm. Wide, blue eyes fly about for a moment in near-panic and Kirk manages to pull back from the impulse to comfort Shahar. That would mean having to lean in close to Spock, and what if that was weird, well everything was already weird—

At the same time, Spock's hand reaches out to Shahar again. But before either of them could act the small face seems to ease, anxious babbling dying down as eyebrows quirk in curiosity. A hand reaches out upward toward Spock, grabbing in his direction greedily. Spock freezes his hand in mid-motion and turns to Jim with an almost blank look, and Kirk does laugh at that.

"Go ahead," he encourages.

As Spock's hand comes down, Shahar's hand seizes around of the fingers, clutching it tightly. But Kirk could tell something's different this time as Shahar's eyes bulge out in bewilderment. The warmer body temperature that was more like Shahar's own, possibly. Or perhaps it's just the contact itself—Kirk glances at Spock, whose eyes are also imperceptibly wider.

"You can feel him, right?"

Spock nods, eyes closing in concentration. "It is indistinct. At a meld point, the intensity may strengthen..."

The finger that Shahar grasps inches toward the child's temple until it's close enough to rest against it. Shahar remains motionless, expression frozen in an apparent daze, but his hand still grasps the finger Spock now presses against his temple. Kirk smiles, leaning forward to tickle Shahar's belly.

"What about now?" he says, voice humming as Shahar's squeaks delightedly, feet jerking into motion at the tickle.

"He is at ease," Spock notes with a trace of something that could be amusement. "He is greatly sensitive to your touch."

Spock stops, and the finger falls away from Shahar's temple.

"Jim."

Kirk glances up with a questioning look.

"After the debriefing with the Federation Council is complete you will be away on shore leave. I am curious to know how you intend to proceed with the child; if you have chosen to raise him yourself."

"Well, I'm not sure," Kirk admits. He pauses to consider his words, wanting to choose them carefully. "I know this isn't kosher since I'll be away for that period, but if you'd like to take some leave, you're free to it. Bones or I could put in a word with the Admiralty if they do object, and...well, you're welcome to transport over with me if you wish to."

Kirk's words drag off, and he feels oddly awkward.

"I didn't tell Winona about any details of, uh, us," he finishes lamely.

Spock looks back at him with an inscrutable expression and Kirk waves offhandedly.

"Sorry, forget I—"

"I am agreeable to your suggestion," Spock interrupts.

"Oh."

He leans in closer and warmth creeps up his cheek. He hopes it isn't showing. Shahar is sucking his thumb, one chubby hand closing reflexively in the cables of Spock's sweater.

"Well, there it is," Jim whispers, wiping away the drool accumulating on the sweater. "Excellent."


End file.
